I hate being up in the morning
every morning the same,
rising with no hope of relief
I mean, why bother?
There's no warmth to nestle in,
no dark to slip into
no sweet scented dew
to take this ache from my head.
Frankly I feel mocked,
as though old beady eye is thumbing his nose,
laughing maniacally at my frustration
He deserves a beating,
to be pounded with fervour
but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
So I sit and smoke
giving my best thousand yard stare
rivalling Clint Eastwood,
while he stands proudly smirking,
defiant, unyielding
a stand off, silent
as I ignore his twitchy responses to my stoic suffering
His resolve only stiffening mine
as I refuse to make his day.